Saturday, October 18, 2008

I got Steven Tyler's autograph, I got Steven Tyler's autograph! And he KISSED me on the cheek with a hug!

I obviously knew he was from Boston, but he's actually from our area, and was right outside our local drugstore as he said his "kids go to school around here" and he's "doing the Dad thing".

I had my baby on my hip, with not a stitch of makeup and he was so very sweet, came into the store after I layered him with all my praises, and bestowed me with the above! Wow, this by far trumps my literal running INTO Goldie Hawn in at Logan airport.

Oh, and once inside the store, he actually started strumming on the back of a computer terminal and started SINGING!!!!!!

Monday, October 13, 2008

It grew outside my window Four times as many years As I had been alive The branches made Sharp claw marks across my window screen Off of these protruded veins Gnarled and spindly Pumping life to all its recipients Long ago dead And frozen to the ground The arms sway in the breeze And sometimes the veins break off and Hit against my window And yet it remains the same day after day As dependable as few humans are He listens.

He drew her close And there they stood The smell of him made her smile When she pushed her face Deeper into his neck She felt him make a noise with her lips Then, as if he were the only thing that mattered She brought her lips to his And kissed him

Remember when you used to take those poor little fireflies and Well do you remember what you used to do with those glowing insects? You'd taunt them When you caught them and kept them in that jar. "You'll live" you said "I'll even cut holes in the top" Then, when you and your gang of warriors decided the hunt was up you'd take those bugs and smush their glowing parts and then you and your tribe would rub their luminescence on your face, up your arms as a Victorious war paint. I remember watching and we would gasp and declare all the horror that there was in such an act I still feel that way but tell me... I'd like to know... Did you get the same feeling I do When I squeeze my tubes of paint and squish that lovely sticky greasy stuff through my fingertips?

The insightful lyrics of Dave Matthews began swimming out of the CD player that her friend Becky always kept in the studio. When the music started all things began to melt and meld together. Her mind would go off on its tangents, run with the tunes, the lyrics, and the paint; the strokes and dabs and squishes she would use in her attempt to relate these feelings, the ones that were constantly in her head these days.

"Care to share your time with me"

She chose deep reds this time, from bloody plum to sunset orange. They were synonymous with how her insides were feeling. Right, don't I wish he were here, right now, sharing his time with me. The velvet purple squirmed out onto the glass and it shone like a fat, gristly worm. The smell of oil paints, thick and heavy, wafted up to reach her nostrils, like mother's milk. She picked up a rag to help her grip the top of the turpentine can, frustrated at its being stuck. The next line made her chuckle and she grimaced as she twisted off the top,

"See you and me have a better time than most,"

Jeff was her best friend and after his big brother graduated last year, and after adopting her as his little sister, she was left feeling his loss, sometimes without that strong one to call on and see whenever she needed anything. When Jeff came to school it was her responsibility to now take him under her wing, get him used to his new life. After spending almost every day together rollerblading, talking, doing stupid things, she now valued their relationship as one that was a part of who she was. The gessoed canvas was huge and its reflected light mirrored the vast emptiness she would periodically feel during moments when she thought about the pointless desperation she felt when he wasn't with her. When she reached for her palette the angry reds and ugly, deep purples were the colors of her anger at feeling the right to be complete, happy with him. With HIM. God damn his girlfriend of three years. She scooped up the dripping, oozy, greasy red with the palette knife and melded it onto the canvas.

"Turns out not where but who you're with that really matters and hurts not much when you're around." See Jeff, see. When they talked about his girlfriend he always seemed complacent, happy... but. He had taken two years off after high school to play baseball, meaning the two of them hadn't been together every day for two years. He always would say he'd marry her unless he met someone else. Sure there was the "unless" but would he really allow himself to look? The turpentine thinned the red that she spread all around the ground with drippy, fat strokes. As the red oozed down the canvas an image of rainy day windowpanes came to mind. Sad.

"And if you hold on tight to what you think is your thing, you may find you're missing all the rest." Could this song be written for anyone but them right now? White streaks of paint, she silhouetted the bumpy purple. Open your eyes and don't take me for granted! I'm not your convenience girlfriend! The purple curled around the edge of the canvas like her heart curling into the fetal position inside her chest. I don't want to hurt what we have right now. It's all I can get. Patience was always something she needed to work on. They still had two years together. That made her smile; an uplifting sweep of cinnamon red with a sharp drop off. She took her hand and placed it on the top of the canvas then let it slid down.

"Turns out not where but what you think that really matters, we'll make the best of what's around."

Sunlight streaking her frizzy, ringlet, cinnamon brown hair Eyes of the same color watched the page, watched the page Slippery, wet tongue pokes out of the determined, little o She's pushing clouds around a white, soft, slip With her sky blue, waxy Crayola Favorite plastic table; A haven where she is enveloped by smooth bright colors and flat animals, bees. The windy day, brushed the leaves outside silver hot pink magenta flash, flash blue Oh, it's hot in her room, her hair frizzes away from her head Dimples deep holes in her way round cheeks Peels of green inch up the dulled stub, ground out a hill Mommy will put this one on the frigerator.

written December 1995It's dark, I'm sliding, sliding down what? It's cold, wet and I smell cinnamon. I land in a kitchen. Hot, pot bellied stove, steam rising and I can see red hot molten glowing rocks inside the gaping mouth of the stove. The floor is pink and white, shiny, lacquered tiles. I'm stunned, the fall hurts, my hands are at my sides on the floor and I look around. Red-brown walls, the color of cinnamon. I reach up and scratch the walls. There it is... ahhh... cinnamon. The kitchen looks like a storybook, Mother Goose fairytale kitchen. Huge, oversized blue and white oven mitts hang on the wall, amid silver ladles, wooden spoons and wait, a huge kitchen knife. I look around and there's a grandma. Not my Grandma but she's my grandma. Her white hair is pulled back into the perfect bun. She looks like Mrs. Clause. My grandma is Mrs. Clause. She takes my hand after sitting down her tray of hot, drippy, icing-covered gingerbread men. Then she leads me outside. There's my car. A white Ford Probe GT, but its sitting in the middle of a frozen lake. It's snowing and everywhere outside is beautful, but I'm not cold. I'm not cold. I'm starting to though and I step onto the ice. I see people underneath, but it's not as if they're trapped or trying to get out. They aren't pressed up against the ice, mouthing for help like I thought they'd be. It's like I'm walking in the heavens when I look down on them, and I'm so high. I'm looking down on a town. Everyone is so cute, walking their dogs, checking their mail, but they're the same little gingerbread men grandma was baking. All of a sudden, someone is holding me and she, she smells so good. I know that smell and I know the cushion of her arms, the curve of her body. I hear the heartbeat and look into the eyes that are the same as mine. She smiles at me, then my mom starts playing with my hair, telling me how much she's missed me. Then we go look at the Christmas tree and I smell cinnamon again. Out beyond the living room I see the same kitchen I saw before but instead of a grandma I see my own family and it really is my family. I look over at the fireplace and the coals are grinning as that same gaping mouth. I wake.

written October 16, 1996You sit on your bed Fingers busy with strands of hair curled round Can't see your eyes Lamp light glints off glass Though I know what you see More than Freud, more than sleep dreams More than calculus math And the psychologies of things You see your chance now Never credited with the things only boys should know Now it's your turn But for all the text books and facts you can quote I learned all my life from you We grew up together You gave me strength And that's how I know you Self-love the want to give And don't you know that you've had so much wisdom All these years I know myself because of you I thank you and I'm proud of you For all I am, there's you

I wanted to say from the bottom of my soul I love you Months go by and days too when I hurt deep inside for something is not right thoughts trouble and disturb me I reach for you and you reach back I sink into your softness and you rub the wounds inside my heart with lyrical words, and a soothing touch You have held my hand when I am thousands of miles away and though I might not have known that I needed that strength you gave it just the same Don't be afraid of what tomorrow will give us Maybe we'll be laughing Maybe we'll be crying but because I love you I accept it

The wisps of heat rose from the oven to twist into the tendrils that had escaped from the rag tied about her head. Wet strands, swimming on her face where rivulets of water streamed down her temples and rolled off her nose, down the hollow of her throat, between her breasts. She took no notice. Her shirt stuck to her and it would only peel away from the narrow shoulders and curve of her back. The flies buzzed, thick like gauze and would settle on her head, her shoulders. She didn't hear. Her arms were delicate, yet how misleading; they had carried so many white babies, plowed so many fields. They ended in narrow wrists and calloused hands. The biscuits were plumping now, filling themselves with the air that was escaping out of her. A half apron tied about her rake thin waist, the same one that had expanded and contracted three times already though she only saw the two living faces as they were taken away. They had come from the master, the reverend of the town. Where were they? Were they lucky enough to be dead now? Thick, dough, flour air permeated the room. Legs were long, lean. When she was younger she could outrun the reverend but then he broke her so badly it took her three months to heal. She didn't run anymore. Images of another deceptively delicate girl, JoJo, were jumping through her head, scenes of life intertwined with her own. JoJo. She could feel nothing through the soles of her feet, they were tough and gnarled as the maple tree outside. The tops of her feet were the same color. Didn't wear shoes. She didn't own any. JoJo was the only thing she owned, spiritually, lovingly. She had made a mistake and loved her sister. She could see the reverend walking now to her sister's hut. The biscuits began to burn. At each fall of his stride she heard screams rip from the throat of JoJo, inside across the hens yard. Dust kicked up as he walked, deliberate, purposeful, fateful. Plates crashed against the wall. She stood there, nothing she could do. She could do nothing. Burning flour in the air. JoJo was in hysterics now. A fissure had been planted in her mind the first time the reverend came to her and now that fissure was a gorge. Tears began to line the ridges of her eyes. He entered JoJo's hut letting the door slam behind him. She knew this would be the last time. JoJo's mind was broken and the remaining web that held together what was left of it would now dissolve, she was only eleven. There was nothing she could do. Smoke from from the biscuits made her eyes blink the stinging saltiness out, this brought her back and she took the blackened mounds out of the oven.

Close as touch Touch as a feather, feathery ice You seep in, whispering Then find my heart or twist the key to unleash thoughts, memories, secrets I breathe, I sweat, I burst with emotions, tears, breath, warmth, sensuality, silent rage All from words Words cut to a sliding guitar string, the expert hand on keys made of elephant, a reverberating thump feel it, and a voice that sweeps around my insides and there I am

Mercury-like globules, highlighted by streaks of pink, peach, lavendar sun fade, melding with the bright strawberry red held within the bulbous translucent glass. Rivulets, sliding, coagulating, then streaking down the red and clear to pool with the brown of my skin. There is a slight rise as I inhale coconut, salt, strawberry and sweat. Wincing at salt dripped from my lashes. I turn to take in this Shang-Ra-La imitation that I am experiencing. Water choppy, rich and deeper than I could ever fathom. A deep, transparent, turquoise blue topped and fringed with fuzzy white, lulling and crashing into each other. Each little hill is branded with a sharp slice of orange red now while the sky is painted the same hue, enveloping its giant sun within its distances. I feel the lurching and gradual dips, like the sliding samples of an octive my ear has caught, within the place in my stomach that I filled with creamy delectables only a few hours ago. Now, that spot pins me down to the plastic sealed with a thin strip of wet to the under of my legs. As my gaze shoots to the farthest places it can touch, I separate the unification of the waves from the sky. Sky, purple red, water, blue purple. Slight touch on my shoulder, and I snag one earpiece with a fingertip while simultaneously twisting the rested muscles in my neck and shoulders. Pleasant man, white jacket, bending forward with a a tray, and I grin thankfully, refusing the service. "Caribbean Blue" whisks me away and I resume quiet, contemplative admiration.

I'm sure if I tried really hard and quietly delved through the past annals of my life, weeding through the plethora of artists names, books and pieces of art, I could remember the first time I took my prized Crayola crayon to a sheet of notebook paper. It was most assuredly my preferred way of whiling away the hours as opposed to what other girls my age were apparently playing with- dolls; how boring. My creativity would give my mother hours of free time as I slipped into my waxy world. Art has since become my truest way of expressing exactly who I am. I feel unencumbered, free to empty the thoughts in my head onto the canvas, paper, or whatever else is set before me. I have always felt that I can most successfully communicate my thoughts when I write them down or transform them to some oily image captured on canvas. Feeding my creative nature is music and words written down by others. Attentively listening to all kinds of music and reading books of just as many genres challenges me to communicate my reactions to the art I take in. An inquisitive nature fuels my creativity, and I feel that I could never be fully satiated with all the intricacies of life. There is a strong sense of commitment that is essential in an artist, requiring her to reach an end to her pieces of art. Commitment and loyalty are values that make up the woman I have become. There is an excitement in exploring each day and seeing each project through to the end. As the hours slipped away years ago, there in my room with my plastic table and Craoyla crayons, they do now in my studio, hands stained with oils and turpentine. I believe this happens when an individual is fortunate enough to find the thing that embodies them and becomes active with it. If he or she is lucky enough to make a living incorporating that which makes her passionate about life, then she will define success.

Sail away on misty blue cool and calm with sprinkles of water on burned shoulders, chest, crispy face while sunglasses slip down freckled banana tropical oil nose. Gulls above circling, dipping, open beak, sharp gray crook and jaw, cracking a clam, dropping into the sea that foams and smells. Smells like salty, fuzzy, sunburn, sweet but clear and God-deep. What's down there? I would never let myself go somewhere like that, I'm up here looking down and through. But I imagine I see skeletal clear fish with lights hung from a fishy scaled pole off their foreheads, gaping mouths with razor sharp teeth that aren't teeth at all but elongated bits of their skin, some protrude out of their mouths and come up to their eyes. Rocky and dead but crawling with life. I'm hungry and I picture shrimp salad back at the deck, in the marina and the waiter, I want to take him home with me. My sister likes him too. She's leaning on me now, snoozing lightly in a doze. She had to be careful with this sun, her skin coloring not the same as mine. The wide brim of her hat is shoving my backwards cap awry. Katie and Seamus run up to me and while Seamus licks the salt from my legs, Katie sits patiently until enough is enough and yipping, chases him around the deck. I inhale so deeply I imagine what my insides look like with this new air and how inflated my lungs are getting, pink and rubbery like the skin on that dolphin.

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